


The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

by allonsy_gabriel



Series: Another 51 [33]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Awkward Crowley (Good Omens), Awkward Flirting, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Dorks in Love, Fluff, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love at First Sight, M/M, Sappy, Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, he's a mess, i need you guys to know just how tacky aziraphale dresses, like i take time to explain it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 20:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21167600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsy_gabriel/pseuds/allonsy_gabriel
Summary: “When you said antiques you, uh, you weren’t kidding,” a voice called out as the bell above Azariah’s door jingled.He poked his head out from where he’d been re-sorting his books and smiled. “Oh, hello!” he said, quickly navigating his way out of the maze of bookshelves that filled up one half of his shop. He wiped his suddenly rather damp palms against his pants (dark brown wool with a light tartan print, today, and a nice blue turtle neck under a lovely cable-knit jumper—no bowtie, it was casual Friday ). “How lovely it is to see you!”It was the man. The one from the flower shop. The one who Azariah had forgotten to ask the name of but had later looked up on The Internet, which was perfectly acceptable behaviour because they were neighbours and it’d been exceedingly impolite to have not asked in the first place, so.





	The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

**Author's Note:**

> gUYs this is so fluffy and so sweet and it makes me so happy
> 
> this is a continuation of a thing i wrote earlier this month called My Thoughts Will Echo Your Name, so feel free to read that first!

“When you said _ antiques _ you, uh, you weren’t kidding,” a voice called out as the bell above Azariah’s door jingled.

He poked his head out from where he’d been re-sorting his books and smiled. “Oh, hello!” he said, quickly navigating his way out of the maze of bookshelves that filled up one half of his shop. He wiped his suddenly rather damp palms against his pants (dark brown wool with a light tartan print, today, and a nice blue turtle neck under a _ lovely _ cable-knit jumper—no bowtie, it was _ casual Friday _). “How lovely it is to see you!”

It was _ the man _ . The one from the flower shop. The one who Azariah had forgotten to ask the name of but had later looked up on The Internet, which was _ perfectly acceptable behaviour _ because they were _ neighbours _ and it’d been _ exceedingly _ impolite to have not asked in the first place, _ so _.

“Yeah,” the man—Crowley, _ Anthony J. _ , apparently—said, and then winced. “I—I mean, it’s—seeing _ you _ is—erm. Lovely.”

Azariah felt his face heat up. “Is there any reason you’ve come in today?” he asked. “Anything I can help you with?”

“Nah, not really,” Anthony said. “‘S just thought I’d stop by—Jesus _ fuck _, this stuff really is ancient, isn’t it?”

He was carefully holding up an old teacup covered in tiny, intricate roses.

“Oh, yes,” Azariah agreed. “That one was actually made in 1784, handpainted by someone in Oxfordshire—”

“_ Seventeen-eighty-four?” _

“Yes.”

Azariah couldn’t help but snicker as Anthony carefully set the teacup down with an absolutely horrified expression on his face. “Fucking ridiculous, holy shit,” he whispered. “How do you—I run into things in my shop _ constantly _ , and it’s not _ half _as cluttered as this. You—I’d break more than I’d sell—”

“Yes, well, some of us are capable of walking in a straight line instead of sashaying around like our hips are made out of a slinky,” Azariah interrupted without thinking. He immediately turned red. How could he have been so terribly rude? And to a man he hardly knew, and one he was—well. One he could _ see himself becoming quite fond of _. “I’m so—oh my goodness, I do apologise, I don’t know what came over me—”

Anthony cut him off with a loud, barking laugh, his head thrown back. “That—don’t be sorry, that was—good. That was good. Good point,” he said, grinning. His smile was wide and made his eyes crinkle at the edges, eyes that were an amber colour almost like honey, framed by sleek black glasses.

He was…

Good _ Lord _ , Azariah needed to _ get it together _. He couldn’t very well lose his wits every time a handsome man waltzed into his shop and almost knocked over an heirloom tea set.

“So,” Anthony said. He’d moved closer, just a few steps, and was leaning against one of Azariah’s bookcases (_ usually, _ this would annoy Azariah to no end—people’s spines were _ made for standing up straight _ , not for _ leaning against and possibly knocking over Azariah’s shelves of priceless, perfectly maintained first-editions _ , for goodness sake—but as Anthony crossed his arms over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other, that _ wonderful _ smile still plastered across his face, Azariah couldn’t find it within himself to care), “this what you do all day? Sell old things and books and…”

“Well, I also feed my cat,” Azariah replied before realising that was quite possibly _ the least interesting thing he could have said _. Might as well have included the fact that his tax records were so impeccable that he’d been audited four times for suspected fraud.

“And buy flowers from multiple florists.”

“Oh,” Azariah muttered. He pushed his glasses up his nose before wringing his hands in front of him. “I suppose that, too. Occasionally.”

“D’you know, way back in Victorian times, there was a whole language made up of flowers,” Anthony said. Azariah _ did _ know, actually—he knew quite well, given that he owned _ multiple _ books on Regency and Victorian courting practices, all of which included at _ least _a chapter on floriography. He didn’t say that, however. “People—they sent secret messages, all the time, through flowers.”

“How romantic,” Azariah said, fiddling with the gold signet ring he wore on his pinky.

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, it was—it was. Romantic,” Anthony said. 

He didn’t say anything else.

“Do you… do you know that language?” Azariah asked, feeling rather ridiculous. Here he was, a grown man, standing in the business _ he owned _, awkwardly flirting with another man who might not have even been queer.

Maybe he was just friendly. And wore his hair in an elaborate coif. And snake-skin boots with a matching belt. And what appeared to be women’s jeans. Maybe he just _ liked giving away flowers, _ and _ just so happened _ to know floriography.

Alright, so Anthony J. Crowley was most definitely _ on the bus _.

“A bit,” Anthony said. “Not much, but—a bit.”

“How—how lovely.”

“Mhm.”

Azariah cringed internally and decided to bite the bullet. “I—you know, I don’t believe I ever caught your name—”

“Oh! Uh. Crowley. _ Well _ . Anthony Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley, actually, but—just Crowley is fine. ‘S what everyone calls me,” Anthony— _ just Crowley _—said, scratching the back of his head.

“Well, Crowley, it’s—it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Azariah said, sticking out his hand.

Crowley took it, and perhaps it was just Azariah’s overactive and possibly a bit desperate imagination, but he could’ve sworn it _ lingered _ , just a touch, just a _ moment _—

“Could I take you to lunch?” Crowley said abruptly, the words seeming to surprise even him. “I—I mean, whenever you—whenever. You’re obviously busy, now, what with your—the antiques. And books. And stuff. But whenever you’re, er, free.”

Azariah felt dizzy, all of a sudden, light-headed as his heart pounded so furiously he heard it ringing in his ears.

“I—I was actually about to close,” he said quickly—too quickly, drat it, surely that was _ too quickly _, surely Crowley would—

“At 2:30?” Crowley asked. “On a Monday?”

“No one buys antiques on Mondays,” Azariah insisted.

He had, admittedly, always been something of a romantic, but this—was this how it was _ supposed _ to happen? It’d certainly never happened to _ him _ before, not like this. He’d fancied people, of course, but only in passing, fleeting ways, and only after knowing them for a great deal of time—nothing like this. There had never been anything that had shown up this abruptly, this forcefully, nothing that had ever snatched his breath and his heart away and left him full of desperate, aching _ want _.

Want to be held, to be kissed, to run his fingers through silky auburn hair, to stare into golden eyes, to trace the pattern of freckles along the bridge of a nose. To know someone, to know their darkest secrets and wildest dreams and all the little things that made them up, all the notes and rests and accidentals and crescendos and fermatas that composed the symphony of someone. To know all the things that made up the gaps between their molecules.

“In that case,” Crowley said, offering out his arm.

Azariah took it and smiled, and walked with him out into the afternoon sun.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you thought


End file.
